"Seems to me, my lad," said Serge, "that we ought to have been started
on this journey two days earlier."
"Yes, Serge," replied Marcus, in a despairing tone. "It's maddening.
Here have we gone on, almost starved, never getting a proper night's
rest--"
"Well, but that's nothing to grumble at, my boy. That's soldiering;
that is what I always told you. A soldier must be ready to fast and go
without sleep, and be always prepared to fight. Now, didn't I teach you
that?"
"Yes, Serge, but I didn't quite understand it then."
"But you do now?"
"Oh, yes, I know now; and I wouldn't care a bit if we could only
overtake them. Three times over during the past week we have been so
close that half a day's march must have brought us to the army."
"That's true," said Serge; "and each time we were cut off by parties of
the enemy, and driven back, just as we thought we could march in, find
the master and Caius Julius, and deliver our message. Fortune of war,
my lad; fortune of war."
"Misfortune of war," cried Marcus, angrily. "Here, I don't know how
many days it is since we started, for days and nights and time all seem
to have grown mixed up together."
"Yes, we have had rather a muddled and worrying time of it, Marcus,
lad."
"And now we are just as far off as ever."
"Well, not quite, my lad."
"I feel weak for want of food, and confused for want of sleep."
"Not you! You only fancy that because you're down in the dumps. You'll
be all right as soon as ever there's anything wants doing and we have
tumbled by accident near to one of those parties of the enemy, who all
seem to be moving the same way as we are to surround the army."
"Yes, Serge, and that's what I am afraid they are doing, and keeping us
outside. It's all desperate and bad."
"Oh, I don't know. We shall get to them some time," said Serge.
"Some time!" cried Marcus, mockingly. "Our poor general with his
followers must have been utterly destroyed by this time."
"Tchah! Not he! You don't know what a Roman general can do. He'll
hold out for months, or kill those who are attacking him. Give it up
your fashion!"
"What do you mean by my fashion?" cried Marcus, sharply.
"Give it up in despair sort of way when there's no need."
"No need!" cried Marcus, bitterly. "You seem to be blind to the danger.
Why, the main army, as you must see perfectly well, has penetrated so
far into the enemy's country that it is completely surrounded by the
tribes that have gathered together, and are only now waiting for a
favourable opportunity to fall upon it and crush it."
"Well, the army's no worse off than we are. They've surrounded us--
parties of them--only we wouldn't be crushed. It's just the same with
the Roman army; it won't be crushed. I've taught you times enough, boy,
what our generals can do--lock their men together, shield to shield,
cohort to cohort, all facing outwards and bristling with spear and
sword. These barbarians are brave enough and they rush at our men
meaning to crush them and sweep them out of the country; and so they
keep on at it, losing more and more, before they roll back beaten."
"Yes, Serge, but only to try again."
"Oh, of course. That's right enough, but it only means to be rolled
back again. Now, look here, my boy; you have got your message to
deliver."
"Yes, yes, I know," cried Marcus, despairingly.
"And you are a bit disappointed because it's not done. Everything's
bad, you say. It's been all misfortune since we started, and we may as
well give up at once."
"Well, isn't it all true?" cried Marcus, as he stood unconsciously
caressing one of the chariot horses as the pair stood ready to make
another dash at a moment's notice, their driver busying himself the
while with seeing to and examining the different parts of the harness.
"True! Hardly a bit of it," cried Serge. "I ought to give you a good
drilling and bullying for what you said; but somehow I can't, for we
have had some very hard work, and all through you have been such a brave
boy."
"Oh, nonsense, Serge! You are only saying that to comfort me. You will
praise me so."
"Oh no I won't," said the old soldier, gruffly. "I won't give you a bit
more than's good for you, boy. When I say you have done well it means
you have done well. You won't get any flattery out of me. All this
trouble that we are going through is no more than you must expect. Look
what we are doing, and how we stand."
Serge was sitting down on a stone, busily employed as he talked
polishing and sharpening his sword as it lay across his knees, and he
did not trouble himself to look up at his young companion, but kept on
lecturing him in a bluff, good-humoured way, smiling to himself with
satisfaction all the time.
"Now here we are, trying to overtake our army, which had some days the
start of us. If I say what you think isn't right, you stop me. Well,
our army has invaded the country of these Gallic tribes. The Gauls are
no fools. They know Caius Julius has come to conquer them, and they
don't want to be conquered. Their idea is to invade Rome and conquer
us. Well, my boy, we have come into their country, and every man who
can fight has been called upon to come and fight against us, so that
like a big crop in a cultivated land, what has been planted has come up
all over. And this crop is fighting men with swords and spears. Now
we--you and me and the driver, and we ought to put the horses in, bless
'em, for they've done wonders--have come after the army, marching
through this bristling crop, and you, without taking any account of what
a hard job it is to get through, keep on grumbling and saying everything
is bad."
"And so it is, Serge."
"It arn't, boy!" cried the old soldier, firmly, and letting his sword
rest, brightly polished and sharp as it was, he now raised his head and
looked smilingly in the boy's face. "Haven't you got proof of it that
things are not as bad as you say?"
"No," cried Marcus, angrily. "I was entrusted with a message to my
father and Caius Julius, and I have not done my task."
"Not yet, boy, but you are going to at the first chance. Why, look
here, my lad, if things were half as bad as you say they are we
shouldn't be here. If we have escaped once from being taken or killed
we have got through a dozen times. Look at us. Why, we haven't got a
scratch, and here we are, better, ever so much, than when we started."
"Better?" cried Marcus.
"Yes, better. We are a bit hungry."
"I tell you I'm half starved," cried Marcus.
"Take your belt up another hole, then, boy. That's a splendid
tightener. Hungry! Why, you talk about it as if it was a disease, when
it's a thing you can cure yourself the first time you get hold of a big
cake and a bowl of goat's milk."
"Oh, how you talk!" cried the boy, holding out his arm and trying to
span his wrist with his fingers. "Look how thin I am getting."
"Thin!" cried Serge. "Why, you look prime. You have got rid of a lot
of that nasty fat that was filling out your skin through doing nothing
but sit on a stool all day making scratches with a stylus on a plate of
wax. What does a soldier want with fat? Your armour's quite heavy
enough to carry, without your being loaded up with a lot of fat. That's
right enough for women and girls; makes 'em look smooth and nice and
pretty, and fills up all the holes and corners; but a soldier wants bone
and muscle--good, hard, tough muscle and sinew, and that's what you have
got now. Look at me."
"Yes, I have looked at you time after time, Serge, and you look
hollow-cheeked and haggard and worn."
"Why, I feel prime, my boy, ready for anything; ten years younger than
when we started. Why, I have got into regular fighting condition again.
Did you see how I jumped into the car yesterday when the ponies started
without me?"
"Yes, I saw you run ever so far and jump," cried Marcus.
"And you begin talking to me about being haggard and worn! Isn't a
sword all the sharper for being a bit worn?"
"Yes, of course."
"So's a soldier. Look here, boy; we are getting seasoned, and I'm proud
to say that I am what a man's officer would call a veteran, and that's
the finest title there is in an army. Then, too, look at our lad here.
See what a splendid driver he's turned out, and how he can send that
chariot in and out among the rocks so close as almost to shave them, and
right in between pairs of them where you or I would think there wasn't
room to pass. And then there's the ponies! They are a bit thin,
certainly, but they are as fine as bronze, and can gallop farther and
better than ever. Now then! Speak out honest! Did you ever before see
such a splendid pair?"
"No, Serge, never."
"And yet you say that everything's wrong and hopeless and bad. Why,
boy, if I didn't know it was all through your being young and anxious
and eager to do your duty, I should be ashamed of you."
"But you are not, Serge?" cried the boy, excitedly.
"'Shamed of you? No, boy. I feel proud."
"There, Serge," cried Marcus, leaving the pony, to go and lay his hand
upon the old soldier's shoulder, "I've done, and I will try and never
complain any more. I do see now what a lot we have to be thankful for.
Now then; what's the next thing we ought to do?"
"Same as usual, my lad," said Serge, rising and sheathing his sword,
which went back into its scabbard with a quick glide till the hilt was
nearly reached, when it required a firm thrust to get it close into its
place. "Well, to begin with, forage first. I often think it's a pity a
man wasn't made like a horse. Look at those two ponies! How their
coats shine in the sunshine! They began eating their breakfast before
it was light, for I was watching and wakeful, and I got thinking like
this as I heard them busy at it, crop and blow, crop and blow, and after
they had eaten all they wanted they had a drink of water, and there they
are fit for the day, while we three have got to find out some place or
another where we can buy, or frighten them into giving us some bread and
milk. We always have been lucky enough so far, and I don't see why we
shouldn't be again to-day."
"But which way shall we go, Serge? It's of no use to try to follow up
the army as we did yesterday, and then have to turn back because the
enemy are between us and it."
"No, boy; I think the best thing we can do is to leave that till we have
done foraging, for we must have something to eat. Then we'll try if we
can't creep round these tribes, or get in between them somehow. Perhaps
we may have a bit of luck to give us a little help. Anyhow, we are not
going to despair."
"No, Serge," cried Marcus, firmly; "anything but that."
"Hah!" cried Serge. "That's spoken like Cracis' son."